


turn your head and cough

by garoude



Series: -- kinktober 2k19 [2]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: (sort of?), Alpha Peter Hale, Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Anal Sex, Breeding, Dubious Consent, Edgeplay, Fucking Machines, Kinktober, Kinktober 2019, Knotting, M/M, Medical Kink, Minor Chris Argent/Isaac Lahey, Minor Derek Hale/Theo Raeken, Minor Scott McCall/Stiles Stilinski, Mpreg, Multiple Orgasms, Omega Stiles Stilinski, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Sex Toys, Sheriff Stilinski's Name is John, very very vague peter/derek content
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-03
Updated: 2019-10-03
Packaged: 2020-11-22 13:02:53
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,954
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20874650
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/garoude/pseuds/garoude
Summary: If an Omega goes too long without getting their heat, a medical professional needs to induce it for them.Day two for Kinktober 2k19. Today's prompts areAss Worship,BeggingandMedical Play.A (potentially dark, if you want to read it that way) A/B/O PWP about Doctor Hale's breeding farm.





	turn your head and cough

**Author's Note:**

> i'm using the [official kinktober list!](https://kinktober2019.tumblr.com/post/187716977021/kinktober-2019-prompt-list) prompts will be mixed and matched as i go. if you have any suggestions for things you'd like to see, let me know.

"You have nothing to worry about, Sheriff," Peter says. "I'll get your son through this."

California is known for its breeding centers, but none are as prestigious as Hale Farms. From the outside looking in, the farm looks no different to your average hospital; it's dozens of storeys high, with floor to ceiling windows and underground parking, and inside, the aesthetic is much the same. The lobby is lemon-fresh and oddly inviting, despite everything being blindingly white. It reminds Stiles of things like watching his mom get sick, visits to see Scott when he got his appendix out - it reminds him of the countless other hospital appointments he's been having over the past few months. The staff wear scrubs and rubber gloves, the TVs overhead are all tuned to the news... 

Honestly, _Farms_ seems like a pretty callous word to use for a place like this.

Still, it's more than just a hospital. The Farms are famous for a reason. There are little hints of luxury here and there that make this place feel more like a day spa than anything else - the marble table-tops, the bright blue flowers bringing a pop of colour to the receptionist's desk - but most importantly, Doctor Hale is brilliant at his job. Fertility treatments here have a remarkably high success rate, samples collected from Alphas are always so _excessive_, and... most importantly, the entire Hale family has been at the forefront of Omega protection for years. Stiles will be shown a kindness here that he might not be shown anywhere else.

Stiles is in Doctor Hale's office, sitting in on a meeting alongside his dad. It's a big deal. He _knows_ it's a big deal. Getting a meeting with Peter Hale himself instead of someone just working a day shift should probably make Stiles feel more comfortable than it does, but it just... makes him even more aware of how dire his situation is. It's not like they'd bring the chief of medicine in to wrap some dude's nasty ankle sprain, right? As an Omega, Stiles is used to feeling on display, but fuck, man, Peter's a guy with _power._ Stiles doesn't like being under his spotlight.

"Are you sure?" asks John. He's a little frantic, his hand on Stiles' shoulder, squeezing tight. Stiles shifts uncomfortably in his seat, but John just keeps talking. "We've been hearing some pretty scary things, Doc. They said his bloodwork --"

"I am aware of his situation. Like I said - he'll be just fine."

Peter's reassuring and patient, like he always is with first-timers. He's seen a lot of men like John come into his office - single fathers overwhelmed by having to raise an Omega on their own, widows and widowers who never really found balance in a life without their mates - and yes, Stiles is something of a special case, but that doesn't make John's fears particularly unique. He's leaving his son with a stranger. It's not like he's the first parent who has struggled with letting their kid go.

Barring the stark white lab coat, Peter's dressed in black, from his polished wingtips to his crisp-button up, every part of him a professional. He's leaning back in his leather office chair, one knee folded over the other. He has one hand on his chin as the other holds the chart Peter was given from Stiles' regular doctors - and yes, there's cause for alarm.

Stiles is nineteen years old, and he's yet to enter his first heat. That's - late, especially for an Omega.

An Omega's first heat is always their worst. Harsh and explosive and intoxicating. The longer it takes for an Omega to get their first heat, the longer it will last, the more intense it will be. Peter heard of an eighteen year old somewhere on the west coast who was nearly hospitalized after the experience, their heart nearly giving out under the constant bursts of adrenaline, their body too focused on getting fucked to care about sleep or food or water. They were found exhausted and dehydrated but begging to be used, begging to be bred, naked and wet and shivering with need..

Everything in Stiles' chart indicates that his heat, should he be left alone to have it on his own terms, would be - far, far worse. John is right to be worried.

So Stiles is here to have his heat induced. To check into this place like a hotel, to be made to feel his first heat as gradually as possible over the next month, and then to have regular, more severe inductions once every two weeks until his body, ideally, regulates its cycle on its own. This is a treatment that requires a delicate hand; there's no telling how Stiles' body will react to what drugs Peter gives him, what procedures he puts him through. But that's why Stiles is here, getting attention from the best of the best. He needs help from someone with real, solid experience.

John and Peter talk to each other like Stiles isn't even in the room. Stiles knows that he really should pay attention, but he's had so many talks with so many doctors about why he hasn't had his heat yet, what will happen if he never gets one, what will happen if he finds a mate and can't get knocked up, what if this, what if that... he's heard his dad ask the same cyclical questions about his health again and again and again, and yeah, that used to be pretty embarrassing, but now -

Now he's just kind of bored?

Don't get him wrong. Dying because he gets so insatiably horny that his dick explodes or whatever isn't exactly how Stiles wants to go out, but the worry about what could go wrong when he finally gets his heat is vastly outweighed, at this point, by the desire to just get it over with. He's slumping down in his chair, playing with a loose thread on his sleeve and anxiously bouncing his knee, and he only zones back in when Doctor Hale says some incredibly heinous bullshit.

"There's no shame in sitting in on Stiles' appointments," Peter offers, and Stiles snaps his head back up, mortified. "Plenty of parents do."

"That'd..." John hesitates, but even as he briskly shakes his head, Stiles cuts him off.

"Woah. Woah, woah. No? No."

He holds up his hands, wordlessly telling Peter to shut that shit down. Emphatically makes an X with his hands, too, slapping the edges together like he's calling for time out.

"No. It's bad enough that I've gotta get this done in the first place," Stiles says. "The last thing I want is for my dad to sit in on me getting a plastic dick shoved up my ass."

"Stiles, Jesus Christ," says John.

Stiles is undeterred. Peter tilts his head, looking studiously at Stiles, offering a benign and vaguely polite smile.

"If you're sure," he says.

In the spirit of preserving what little privacy Stiles has left, Peter sends John out of the room after a few more invasive questions and gentle reassurances. John squeezes Stiles' shoulder again when he goes, and Stiles slumps further down in his chair, which is as white and as clinical as the rest of this place. The cushion is too soft - he can't get comfortable.

"When did you start presenting?"

Peter asks that without any build up, piercing Stiles with a hard-hitting stare. Stiles feels something stir in his stomach. Anxiety, maybe. He feels queasy.

"Kind of a personal question? _When did you start presenting._"

Peter arches one eyebrow, sinking back into his chair and going through Stiles' chart again. Stiles isn't sure he ever really... presented, so to speak. He's never really daydreamed about getting knocked up by some big, beefy Alpha. Never dropped onto his hands and knees and did whatever arm-flapping, yodel-dependent mating dance Omegas are supposed to do when their body knows it's time for them to get fucked. He honestly thought he was a beta for a long, long time, and - frankly, so did everyone else. 

It wasn't until Scott cornered him after practice, pinned him up against his locker, buried his nose in his neck and breathed in his scent like his life depended on it that they both realized he might be something else. Stiles thought he was just screwing with him, up until Scott, in all his new-found, pent up Alpha glory, begged Stiles to touch him. Begged to just breathe him in and be around him while he jacked off, begged to look Stiles in the eye when he comes. Stiles stammered through the whole thing with excited, blindsided nerves, letting Scott dry hump his thigh like a horny dog until he came in his gym shorts and very hurriedly left before things "got weird". Stiles, uh. Stiles thinks about that day a lot.

John took him in to get examined soon after, and that's how Stiles found out what he was. Omega - plain as day. Just... one that's taking his time to develop.

Peter's still waiting for an answer. Stiles gets annoyed. Defensive.

"No, seriously. Super invasive. Why does it matter? You wanna grill me about that time in third grade when Jackson Whittemore locked me in the girl's bathroom all recess next? Wanna make fun of me for being scared of the dark? C'mon, come at me."

Peter's... still waiting for an answer. He darts his tongue between his lips, gets them wet, then sighs through his nose, rolling up the sleeves of his coat and his shirt. Stiles swallows. It's a tiny gesture, but it's authoritative and dominating and Stiles feels kind of sheepish. Reprimanded, maybe.

"When did you start presenting?" Peter asks again.

Stiles relents a little. He's a smart kid. He knows that Peter's just doing his job. Just trying to help him. There's a second or two of stubborn staring, but then Stiles is sitting up a little straighter, lacing his fingers together and resting his hands between his knees.

"Uh. I... I guess I figured I might be an Omega a couple of years ago. Sixteen, maybe."

Peter makes a thoughtful noise, finding a pad of paper and a pen. He scribbles something down, and Stiles tries to crane his neck and straighten his posture enough to see it. Peter angles it so he can't.

"What do you think about when you masturbate?"

"Oh, Christ. Um."

Stiles blanches a little, though the tips of his ears start to turn back. He slumps back in his seat and starts bouncing his leg again, his hands fidgeting too much to stay woven together.

"I don't know," Stiles mumbles. "Normal things."

"You don't have any particular urges you find yourself drawn to?"

"Uh."

Stiles shrugs with one shoulder. He scratches the back of his neck and pulls a face like he's thinking, resting his other arm over his waist.

"No?" he mumbles, finally. "I mean - I don't know. I just jerk off, man."

"I see. I'll take that to mean...." Peter starts, sentence flagging for a second as he taps his pen to his bottom lip. "You don't often think about being bred?"

Stiles - doesn't know how to answer. He hesitantly shakes his head. That's why he's here, isn't it? Hasn't had that heat yet.

"I'm kind of a terrible Omega," Stiles admits with a crooked grin, only half joking.

"Oh, I don't know about that."

Peter stands from behind his desk, and jeez, he's taller than Stiles was expecting him to be. Stiles is pretty gangly himself, but he feels sort of dwarfed. Peter moves in front of the desk, leaning back against it with his hands gripping the edges, and Stiles looks up at him with butterflies in his stomach.

Peter doesn't elaborate on his point, and he's staring at Stiles like he's expecting something. With his teachers, with his friends, whenever he's stared at like that, Stiles either doubles down on being evasive and annoying just to prove a point, or he ignores the subtle tinge of disapproval in their eyes to keep living his best life. With Peter, though, Stiles is... understandably self-conscious. So.

He talks, uncharacteristically worried about saying the wrong thing.

"I kinda just... enjoy... being touched. I don't... think about much."

"And how do you touch yourself?"

Stiles' mind goes blank. He shrugs again with that same single shoulder, but Peter just keeps staring at him. Waiting. Expectant. Stiles swallows his nerves.

"I... just... jerk off, man."

"You don't play with your ass?"

"I--"

Okay, come on. Stiles frowns, more annoyed than strictly embarrassed

"How exactly is knowing this going to help you?" Stiles asks, flapping the front of his shirt like he needs to cool off. "I mean - I mean, yeah? I guess."

"Every time?"

"... Yeah."

There's a change in Peter. Something satisfied, something calculated. He grins, showing his canines, and Stiles feels that same queasy flutter in his stomach. 

"You're a fine Omega," Peter says, reaching his foot out and lightly tapping Stiles on the shin. "You just need to be broken in."

After a few more questions, Peter gets off his desk and leads Stiles out of his office with his hand on the small of Stiles' back. They meet up with John who's waiting in the hallway, anxiously putting on a brave face for Stiles who honestly doesn't need it. He's not scared about this. Doctor Hale is a nosy son of a bitch, but he's never had a dissatisfied patient. If he's as confident as he says he is, then... Stiles figures he's in safe hands.

There's some paperwork to be done and goodbyes to be said, but Peter tells John and Stiles that there's no point in leaving this any longer than they already have. Stiles checks into the farms then and there, getting a hug from the sheriff who looks incredibly reluctant to leave, and soon enough it's just Stiles, Peter and the smell of 409 sharp in his nostrils. Peter takes Stiles by the shoulder and leads him out of the lobby, taking him to an elevator and indenting the up button with his thumb. The doors close, and Stiles feels just a little trapped.

If this were a hotel, they would be in the penthouse suite. The farm looks less like a hospital, this high up in the building, so close to the roof. It's still bleach-white and sterile, but there aren't closed, private rooms up here. The rooms are walled off by glass and look more like pens for cattle than anything else - there are state of the art milking machines attached to plush, white beds, there are cuffs and ropes so solidly built and tightly woven that they can restrain even the most aggressive of Alphas. Stiles has seen stables like this before, everyone has, but he still feels daunted about being in one.

"Ah - excuse me, Stiles."

Peter gets sidetracked from taking Stiles to his room, distracted by a patient that needs his attention. He heads into a nearby room, and Stiles does his best not to peer through the glass out of sheer curiosity, but it's hard not to look. 

There's an Alpha on display in there. A _C. Argent_, according to the note scribbled under his room number. He's bound to the wall behind him, kept upright and in place, legs spread eagle a few inches above the ground, arms up above his head. He's got a gag in his mouth, red and rubber, and he's biting down on it as hard as he can, drool pooling from the corner of his lips.

"Hello, Chris," Peter says.

Stiles tries not to look for long - but his eyes dart down, just for a second. There's something like a fleshlight pistoning up and down on Chris's cock, spinning in rhythms, vibrating as it milks and sucks and takes. Chris grunts in response to Peter but says very little else, too busy focusing on trying to lift his hips from the wall, panting and moaning, slutty and wanton. Doctor Hale adjusts a setting on the machine, making it vibrate a little less, making each long, drag of silicone back down Chris's cock come slower and more forceful, and Chris reacts pretty strongly to that.

Chris grunts again, but it's louder, annoyed and desperate and pleading. He pulls against the ropes holding him in place, yanking against the restraints on his wrist, only tightening them and making his hands go red with blood. Peter turns the machine down even more, limiting the push and pull of the synthetic fuck-sleeve even more, concentrating the efforts of the milking machine on the very head of Chris's cock, and Chris _hates_ that. He yells into his gag and tries even harder to pull away from the wall, blinded by his primal, bestial urge to fuck and to breed as deeply as he can, and Peter just grabs Chris's chart and writes something down.

"Yes, yes. I know. You want more. You've always been so _needy,_ Chris."

Peter finishes his notes, thumbs a button on the machine again, and the machine takes every inch of Chris's dick into it, right down to the base. Chris bucks forward until his knot starts to flare, and Peter, apparently satisfied, sets Chris's chart back over the edge of his unused bed and heads back out to Stiles.

Stiles is - kind of speechless.

With a cheery _are you coming, stiles?_, Peter keeps walking, and Stiles stammers and trips over both his words and his feet as he rushes to keep up.

The walk to Stiles' room should have only taken a few minutes, but Peter stops in every Alpha's room. There aren't any betas here, at least as patients, and Stiles has only seen a couple of Omegas so far - a kid from school, Isaac something, same year as Stiles. He's on all fours, ass up in the air, making all these mewling little moans while he gets fucked from behind by a nurse, and when Peter walks in to check his vitals, he tells him that Chris is knotting more and more frequently. Isaac bucks his hips back against the cock inside of him, curling his fingers in his own hair and choking out a moan, and when Peter tells him he's sure Chris will be ready to breed him in a matter of days, Isaac comes.

Stiles watches.

The second Omega - he doesn't know this one - seems like a bit of a douchebag. _Theo,_ according to Peter. He's on his back getting railed within an inch of his life, legs wrapped around the waist of the tanned, broad-backed Alpha that's slamming into him so hard the bed's about to break, and the second he sees Stiles through the glass from over his Alpha's shoulder, he has the audacity to actually wink.

Stiles pulls a face, looking away, and Peter lingers in this room for a little too long. Stiles looks back, that feeling in his stomach getting more and more frantic, and try as he might to digest his butterflies, he can't. He sees the Alpha, and this guy, fuck, he knows this guy, everyone knows this guy. Derek Hale, right? Doctor Hale's nephew, the guy that's spearheading all those political campaigns about Omegas deserving basic rights. Stiles is kind of surprised to see him at the farms, but - he doesn't seem like a patient. He doesn't seem like he needs help being everything an Alpha should be.

It's insane, seeing him like this. He's normally pretty quiet. Right now, he's more animal than man - his knot is fucking _huge,_ and every time he bottoms out his length in Theo's ass and gets stuck trying to force his knot inside of him, he tries harder and harder to get him to yield. He throws his weight into each thrust, panting and growling so hard he sounds like he's drowning - Theo is soaking wet and Derek just won't fucking _stop,_ biting hard into Theo's shoulder while all Theo can do is hold him and pinch crescent moons into his back with his fingernails, moaning like a porn star and staring, always fucking staring, at Stiles from over Derek's shoulder. So god damn happy to be at the center of a show.

"I didn't realize this was supposed to happen today," Peter says, completely calm. 

Derek's too fucked up on lust to even acknowledge Peter's there, arching his back and dropping even more of his weight down on Theo, saying all these aggressive, forceful things in his ear. Telling him he's gonna breed him, telling him he's gonna fuck him until he's too sore to walk. Promising to knot him and fill him with pups and keep him pregnant for the rest of his god damn life. Peter watches, taking his time with the notes he's writing, and Theo keeps telling Derek more, harder, more, he needs it, he needs this, he needs this.

"Theo - I thought you weren't in heat for another week?"

Theo laughs, mumbles something about how he guesses he got impatient, and Peter sets his chart back down.

"Well," Peter says. "Derek hasn't had an unsuccessful breeding yet. If this doesn't work, we'll have to run some more tests, but - I've got a good feeling about this one." 

There are other rooms they stop in. Other Alphas. All of them getting milked, getting drained, getting touched in some way. Peter leaves every door to each glass pen open when he leaves, and the loud, constant moaning and crying and screaming of men in the throes of pleasure are making that feeling in the pit of Stiles' stomach get worse and worse, and it's not just nausea, at this point, he's genuinely starting to feel like he might have caught something. He's red and he's sweaty and they pass an Alpha fucking a toy mounted in the center of his room, they pass two Alphas bound and restrained with samples being connected by Beta nurses, they pass - so many people. Stiles sees more sex in the past half hour than he's seen in his life.

And then they're in Stiles' room.

It's glass, like all the others. From here, Stiles can see Derek towards the end of the hall, who just came inside of Theo but is fucking through his refractory period and keeping himself hard for another round. Stiles' stomach is tense, a boiling, uncomfortable pit settling in his abdomen, making him feel like he's swallowed tar. Peter shuts the door behind them, muting all the noise, and the silence is like stepping into a warm bath. It puts Stiles at ease, makes him a little more relaxed.

Peter's got glasses in his pocket, modern and thin and framed with the thinnest possible band of genuine platinum. He takes them from the inside breast of his coat, slipping them on, and while he walks to the white supply cabinet against the opposing wall, he tells Stiles to get comfortable.

There's not a lot to get comfortable on. There's a hospital bed with stirrups and wrist restraints, wrapped in clean, crisp sheets, but it's kind of daunting to get up there, now that he's seen how some of the men at the farms are being treated. He swallows, though, committed to this, lifting himself up onto the edge with a little _hup_ that goes unnoticed.

Peter rummages through the cabinet and Stiles toys with his hands again, fidgeting like he did during their first meeting. He steeples his fingers, swings his feet over the side. Peter finds what he's looking for - lube, medical gloves, and a silver case marked _synthetic aides_, which is, as Stiles correctly assumes, just a box of dildos. Honestly, good for Peter for trying to recapture some of the mystique or whatever, but given that Stiles just watched a bunch of dudes getting edged and fucked and bred, he privately, petulantly thinks it's a little too late to start acting coy.

Walking back to the bed, Peter frowns, snapping on his gloves and adjusting his glasses.

"Get comfortable," Peter repeats, then realizes that Stiles might not understand what he means. "Take off your clothes."

Stiles... doesn't.

"Uh," he says. "Do I get a robe?"

"No."

"A paper gown?"

"No," Peter says.

"A... sick coat like yours?"

Peter shakes his head. Stiles isn't surprised, but he doesn't like being naked in his own freaking bed, let alone here, through incredibly transparent walls and surrounded by Alphas. He scratches the little scruff of stubble that's been growing on his throat, feeling his adam's apple bob when he swallows his anxiety. His stomach's really starting to ache.

"Okay, okay," Stiles says. He's feeling worse, progressively worse. Everything's feeling - worse, less and less gradually. He kicks off his shoes and socks, letting them stay where they land, then moves on to the rest of his clothes.

Peter's foregone any of Stiles' rights to privacy. He's at the foot of the bed, watching Stiles strip, and the melting, gritty charcoal-feeling in the Omega's gut is only getting more and more intense the more exposed he feels. He gets his overshirt off, but once he's up to his tee, he's sweaty and sore enough to struggle with pulling the neck over his head. He gets his shirt off eventually, then toes off his jeans as slowly as he can. By the time he gets to his boxers, his stomach is hurting so much that he actually has to stop, hunching over on the bed and gripping his side.

"Ah - hold on," Stiles mumbles, but the words come out slurred. His vision's getting kind of glassy. "I'm - ah. Ah, crap, hold-- hold on."

He steadies himself with the edge of the bed, though his palms are sweaty and he feels like he's gonna throw up. He blinks hard, but it feels like the pins and needles stabbing into his stomach are spreading up his spine. He feels like he's full of static, and it's-- it's hot, it's really hot. He's starting to sweat.

He tries to get through it, breathing through his mouth when it feels like breathing through his nose won't work. His chest aches with each intake of breath, and when he tries to will himself past it, he just gets dizzy and loses his balance. Stiles moans like he's seasick, clinging to the edge of the bed, and he tries to get up, tries to move, tries to do _anything,_ but he just ends up thinking he's gonna pass out.

"Ah - f - fuck. I think you... I think you need to-- to call my dad, I'm--"

"There's no need for that," Peter says, his voice velvet-soft. It purrs through Stiles' ears and sends a full-body shudder through his system, toes curling and legs going straight.

"Is--" Wait, wait. Stiles swallows, barely able to get his words out. "Is this--?"

"Yes," Peter says.

This is his heat. Fuck. Fuck, fuck, Peter didn't induce him, he's - he's gonna feel it all at once. Stiles panics.

"How do you feel?" Peter asks.

"Bad? Bad. I-- I can't..."

He can't talk. Stiles feels dizzy and sick and so, so hot. He's starting to feel like he's being burned alive by these boxers - fabric on his skin feels coarse and rough and razor-sharp, and Stiles understands why all the beds and the seats are so soft in this place. It's the only thing an Omega in a heat this bad can stand to touch.

His hands are shaking like he's been in a blizzard - he's seen people in withdrawal before, and he knows he has to look just like that. Fragile and messy and at the end of his rope. Stiles tries to pull his boxers off and misses, hitching himself a few inches up the bed while he tries to navigate his thumb beneath his waistband to get a hold of it. He's just too fucked up to think, to move. He feels - awful, he feels so awful, it's only getting worse, only getting worse. He's aching, every part of him, he needs-- he _needs._

Peter takes some measure of pity on him. 

Peter's an Alpha. Stiles knew - they all know, everyone knew, it's not a secret, the Hale family is nothing but Alphas - but now he really _knows._ Peter gets his fingertips on Stiles' thighs, brushing over his bare skin with latex gloves, and Stiles' body is immediately wrecked by the intense, overwhelming urge to come.

"Ah - ah, I'm g--"

Peter's fingertips draw a thin, graceful line higher up Stiles' thighs, and that's seriously all it takes. Stiles comes harder than he ever has in his life. He cries out hard, tears falling from the corners of his eyes, his lungs cinched in his chest and the unbelievable intensity of his climax short-circuiting his brain. His abs ache from clenching too hard, he's making noises he's never made before. He's never felt anything half as good as this.

He's pushing his hips into the air and filling his boxers with cum, choking on his own desperate, heaving breaths. His entire body feels overcharged. Shockwaves of bliss and pleasure are rolling through him all at once, his back arching high off the bed while he sobs and throws his neck back until it hurts. There are more and more tears in his eyes and he's still grinding his hips up in a desperate need to really, really be touched. When he finally stops shooting his load, quivering and collapsing back into bed, his body feels no less on fire. 

Peter keeps his hands there, just gently grazing over Stiles' thighs, and it's both too much and not enough at the same time. Being touched by an Alpha is killing him, making his hole clench and tighten, frustratingly empty. There's this horrible, miserable loneliness overtaking Stiles now, a bitter background radiation permeating his blind urge to get fucked. Stiles sobs again, teeth chattering, and he clenches his jaw tight before he gets a chance to accidentally bite his tongue.

"Good boy," Peter says. Like he's proud of him for coming so hard.

He gets his hands on Stiles' boxers, tugging them down in careful increments. Stiles makes this undignified rasping noise from the back of his throat, blearily gazing up at the sterile, mercury lighting overhead. His hair's all sticking to his forehead and he's squirming when Peter takes his boxers off of him, like he wants to crawl out of his own skin and just run away from all these feelings in his chest. This is - too much, and when Peter steps away out of sight to stow his boxers in the storage closet, Stiles makes this lonely noise of distress that makes him feel kind of pathetic.

He doesn't want to be alone. Stiles has always feared, above all other things, being alone. He's scared that Peter's going to hook him up to a machine and leave him here to suffer and starve until his heat is over, and he can't, he doesn't-- he doesn't want that, he doesn't want to be alone.

"Please," Stiles whimpers, pressing his knees together, the ceiling light overhead starting to burn his eyes.

He's wet. He's so, so, so wet. Peter's been doing this for years, but he's never touched an Omega as wet as Stiles. Now that Stiles is completely naked, sprawled out on his back and digging his heels into the bed, Peter can see just how deeply he's entered his heat. There's slick sticking between Stiles' thighs and the sheets of the bed, there's sweat glistening off his body. He's perfect breeding material. All he needs is the right Alpha to take him.

It's a good thing, then, that Peter has as much self control as he does.

He decides he needs Stiles on his knees. Stiles doesn't resist, when Peter grabs him by the hips without warning and drags him back down towards the foot of the bed, and when he gives the command to _roll over, mister stilinski,_ Stiles practically trips over himself in the rush to do it. It should be humiliating, his knees in his own lube, bent down with his ass in the air for Doctor Hale to examine, but Stiles... likes it. Loves it.

"Please," Stiles repeats.

Peter knows how easy it is for a professional in his position to get in trouble. He's got an Omega in heat begging for his cock, and it would be easy to tear down his zipper and fuck him as hard into the bed as he can, breeding that perfect, perfect ass and bringing a new litter of Hales into the world. Peter's always had a remarkably strong willpower, but - but Stiles is crawling under his skin.

"I'm going to walk you through what I'm doing," Peter says, and Stiles nods, so desperate and eager to follow orders. Any orders.

"Right now," Peter says, opening the case with his thumbs, "I'm preparing to penetrate you. An Omega in their first heat is usually sensitive enough to be more than satisfied with something like this - a tool, a toy. A placebo. With any luck, this will be enough to ease some of your discomfort."

Stiles nods. He nods, frantically, but he's not sure if he's listening or not. He's resting his forehead on the bed, hiding in the shade between his arms, clenching his eyes shut as tightly as he can. He can't think. Can barely even speak. His voice sounds like someone else's, when he finds it. He barely understands the question he's asking.

"Why am I - why am I in heat? Why wasn't I induced?"

"You were," Peter says.

He selects a toy from his collection. Slender, decently long, flared with a knot suitable enough for a virgin like Stiles, inoffensively flesh-coloured. Stiles takes a long, shuddering breath, arching his back higher and easing back an inch or two to get as close as he can, as ready as he can. It takes every ounce of willpower Peter has not to swipe his tongue between Stiles' cheeks, tasting every sweet drop he's offering him. He must be so fucking tight. Peter would do so right by him.

But - again - Peter's a professional. He might have chosen, on a whim, to ignore the ethics he's supposed to have and awaken Stiles to the full fire of his heat by parading him around in front of a dozen pent up, furiously aroused Alphas - but he was so, so curious to see how bad this heat would get, and so, so sure that Stiles would be able to get through it. They didn't need to go through the safe route of drugs and periodic check ups and all that nonsense - what a waste of time. This will be so much more fun.

Peter adjusts his glasses and fixes his gloves, watching Stiles rake his fingers over his skull and make quiet, frustrated noises, needy and struggling to wait. He strokes the toy, up and down the shaft, thoughtful more than erotic, then gradually brings the tip to Stiles' entrance.

He tries to be gentle, as is standard procedure, but Stiles can't wait. The feel of something _there,_ something that close to fucking him, filling him, giving him what he needs, that's-- that's too much, and Stiles keens back against the head of the toy, begging Peter without words to just fucking do it already. Peter holds the toy perfectly still, and Stiles, blindly excited, pushes back and back and back and _back_ until finally - _finally_ -

The head of the toy breaches Stiles' hole, and he lets out this sob of relief, flexing a long string of precum that drips from the head of his cock and onto the sheets below. Peter keeps the toy perfectly stationary so Stiles can ride it, squeezing and milking the first inch or so he can take before it really starts to hurt, stretching himself out, panting and moaning and losing his fucking mind. Peter watches. Peter just... watches.

And then he decides to help. He fucks the toy into Stiles with neutral, mechanical precision, inch by gloriously wet inch. He rests his other hand on Stiles' hip in a silent order for him to stay still, but fuck, Stiles hasn't been able to stay still a god damn day in his life. He curls his toes, his head lolled in the sheets, mouth hanging open and eyes shut. He's moaning like the bitch in heat he is, and Peter's trying his best not to let it affect him.

He's _above_ letting people affect him. He's Peter Fucking Hale - he affects _them._

"Simulating intercourse should become routine for you at home," Peter says, watching with mild fascination as Stiles so easily takes another inch, and Stiles is still nodding, still furiously committed to doing exactly as he's told. "That ache you feel in your stomach - it'll only get worse if you don't take care of yourself, Stiles. You need to do this every time you're in heat, or you're going to get yourself hurt." 

Stiles nods, scrambling to hold onto the sides of the bed. The toy is good. The toy is fucking amazing. Maybe he just likes the way his ass brushes against Peter's knuckles every time he strains enough to get the toy in deep - or maybe he really is just so overloaded with a need to be filled that any kind of satisfying stretch of his hole is enough to turn him into a content, drooling idiot.

"I... please," Stiles whispers.

"Hmm?"

"M... more."

But amazing as this might feel, Stiles can't keep doing this. Rocking back and forth on his knees, tensing his body tight around six inches of silicone. He scrubs his face in the sheets and winces with pain, his back twinging and his knees starting to get uncomfortable. The ache in his stomach isn't going away.

"More," Stiles says. "More."

"More?"

Peter's smiling, his voice saccharine and sing-song. Stiles makes another sound he's never heard himself make, this violent moan of frustration that hurts his throat on the way out. 

"More," he repeats. "More, more, more. Please. Please, please, please."

He's starting to cry, each please more desperate than the last. He's actually crying, saying the words _more_ and _please_ in pathetic, interchangeable bursts. He's clinging to the bed, pushing back against the silicone knot in an attempt to make it enter him, squeezing down and knowing, _knowing_ that this isn't enough.

And it's getting harder for Peter to stay like this. Disconnected by the thin layer of latex gloves and the lifeless, dead toy in his hand. Staying behind this thin veneer of professional behaviour when he already broke the rules by triggering Stiles' heat in an uncontrolled environment, all because the second he saw him, he wanted to watch him break. To see what he could do if he got his hands wrist-deep in all that stubborn sarcasm, those self-defeating jokes. 

Peter knew Stiles had everything it takes to become the perfect Omega. Why should Peter, the Alpha who brought all of this out of him, not be allowed to relish in his prize?

"What do you want?" Peter asks. There's a subtle danger in the question. He needs Stiles to commit to this.

"I... I want..."

He's pushing back against the knot, still trying to work the bulbous base of the dildo inside of him, but Peter doesn't let it happen. He pulls back, drags every inch out of Stiles' body even as the Omega whines and panics and yells _wait, please, fuck_ into the crook of his arm. 

"What do you want?" Peter asks again.

"_More,_" says Stiles, frustrated. "Please."

Hmm. That's not good enough.

Peter draws the toy out of Stiles completely, dropping it on the sheets and leaving it on the bed between Stiles' legs. Stiles shudders and feels so nauseous about being empty that he feels like crying again - there's a distant part of him that remembers sitting in Peter's office with his dad and acting like this wasn't going to be a big deal, but that guy feels like a completely different person. That guy couldn't have been him.

"Fuck me," Stiles says, voice a mess. "Please. Please, please, I need something real. Need your cock in me, need-- need cum, need to be bred, need you to breed me."

And that's enough.

Peter smiles softly, running his still latex-lined finger along the outer edge of Stiles' hole. Stiles moans again, still tilted more towards frustration than pleasure, and when Peter slowly sinks his fingertip down to the first knuckle inside Stiles' ass, Stiles' cock spasms and jumps like he's gonna come again.

"Fuck me," Stiles begs. "I need, I need... n... need... f... fuck, fuck, fuck m-me, f..."

Peter gets his finger down to the first knuckle, and Stiles spreads his knees further apart, pushing his ass higher in the air and burying his face in the bed. He reaches down and grabs his cock, gripping as tight as he can and just furiously stroking, overwhelmed with images in his head. He wants to be tied to a wall like Chris, fucked and used by a dozen Alphas. Wants to be pinned down by Derek and ruined by that fat, massive knot. Wants Peter to climb up onto this bed with him and call him a good boy again, wants Peter to keep telling him he's a good Omega, wants to be bred and fucked and bred and bred and bred.

Peter takes his finger back. He spreads Stiles' ass, peering through his glasses while more lubrication trickles down Stiles' taint and runs rivers down his thighs. Stiles quivers and waits and gets tired of waiting, repeating _please_ and _fuck me_ and _mister hale_ and _alpha_ until his throat is raw. Peter listens, gently squeezing Stiles' balls, gently running his hand over each perfect cheek. Touching Stiles without penetrating him again.

"I've seen... many Omegas, Stiles," Peter says, slow, still speaking like a doctor, all informative and medical.

"F-Fuck... fuck me..."

"None quite like you."

"Fuck me, fuck me, please, come in me, come in me, fuck."

Peter leans forward, brushing over Stiles' cheek in a gentle, lazy kiss. Stiles is still begging, still crying, still pulling at his hair and jerking himself off and being overwhelmed by how frustratingly difficult it is to come again now that all he needs is to be full. Peter's slow, so agonizingly slow, and he's been slow for too long. The air is full of the wet sound of flesh on flesh as Stiles jerks and Derek fucks and Chris finally slams his knot into his milking machine.

Peter takes off his glove and the change is instantaneous. He touches Stiles' hole and Stiles bucks and writhes and pushes back, greedy and furious, choking out more unbalanced, frantic sounds. Peter sinks his finger in and Stiles clenches down on him like a vice, babbling appreciative thank yous until he's dizzy and red in the face.

He adds another finger. Another. Peter stands closer, moving until he can put his second hand on Stiles' shoulder blades, pushing him further into the bed. He fucks him with two fingers, then three, faster and faster still, and Stiles is actually screaming, by this point. Moaning loud enough that his throat tears and aches and rips. Peter fingers him until he's coming, his hole spasming around his hands, but even after blowing another giant, blissful load on his fingertips, Stiles isn't done.

Peter slaps Stiles' ass, and it makes him clench down even tighter. He's the perfect fucking Omega.

Stiles comes four more times before Peter does anything else. Hours of riding his fingers, of squirming and begging and crying and shaking and wondering in his moments of clarity if he'll ever be proud and sarcastic again, or if this is his life now - some slut who can't breathe without something stretching him open and making him come. Peter has so much stamina, so much patience, and he overwhelms Stiles again and again and again, only ever speaking to give him orders - to tell him to call him _Sir,_ to look up at him so he can see his tear-stained face. 

It's hard to tell how time works, in closed off stables where the only source of light comes from the buzzing, sterile electric ones lining the ceiling. Stiles thinks it's night by the time Peter finally fucks him.

He's on his knees on the bed, behind Stiles, doggy style. He looks so composed even after all this time - Stiles is red and sweaty and exhausted, covered in dry and wet cum alike, and Peter's just in his glasses and his expensive clothes and his lab coat behind him. He hasn't even formed a knot yet, he's just - thick, his cock resting on the small of Stiles' back while Stiles continues to slur and beg and ask his Sir to take pity on him and give him what he needs.

Peter enters Stiles slowly, and yeah, Stiles comes again. He twitches and tightens around Peter's head, but he doesn't cry out, doesn't moan, far too exhausted at this point to do anything but huff and roll his eyes into the back of his head and squirm. Peter slowly, slowly, slowly, slowly drives into Stiles all through his fifth or sixth or seventh orgasm of the day, sinking in and in and in.

He's not going to last long either. Stiles has the tightest, most perfect hole just begging to be bred, and Peter feels himself flaring. He clenches his teeth and bottoms out in the velvet, boiling heat of Stiles' body, feeling like he's being massaged and milked by something designed solely for him.

He rolls his hips, fucking into Stiles in long, deep thrusts, hitting his prostate and making him laugh breathlessly, too overworked and full of bliss to do anything else. He grips Stiles by the hips, holding on for support, pushing him down his length and pulling him back again - he can use Stiles however he wants. Stiles just thanks him and leans into it, the ache in his body finally subsiding.

"What will your father say," Peter whispers, bending forward until his chest is against his back and his lips are against the shell of Stiles' ear, "when you come back home, marked as my bitch? Pregnant by my seed."

"Nnn."

Peter's hips snap forward, pushing Stiles into the bed, and it honestly doesn't take much more than that. He jackrabbits into Stiles and leans down on him, pressing his body into the sheets beneath him, whispering words of praise in his ear. Such a perfect ass, such a good Omega, such a good, good boy for him. So tight and perfect and ready. Such a good, beautiful boy.

"You're _mine,_" Peter hisses.

His knot swells and Stiles takes it, takes the impossible stretch that fills him and gets him open and makes him see white. He feels so good that he thinks he might have passed out, or maybe he just came again, he - he doesn't know anymore. Peter's cum is red hot but still somehow soothes the burn inside of him when he floods his womb with his seed, filling him and making him his. Claiming him.

"F... fhgh... nn..."

Their session, eventually, comes to an end.

The Sheriff picks Stiles up after a month, and Peter reassures him that his treatment went just fine. His hand lingers on Stiles' shoulder, the scent of his mate still coming off of his last heat swirling in his lungs, and when John frantically thanks Doctor Hale for all his hard work - all he does is smile.

"That's what I'm here for."

**Author's Note:**

> i could have gone harder on the ass worship. potentially going to write a chapter 2 at a later date? we'll see.
> 
> beta by [librations](https://archiveofourown.org/users/librations), a wonderful sunfish of a person.


End file.
